


United

by Luka



Series: We're a team [2]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: Owen and George's Instagram bombshell has put them in the media spotlight.





	United

**Author's Note:**

> There's plenty of justified cursing in this fic! And if you haven't read the stories about Jonny allegedly channelling a chicken, go straight to Google now! And there's a hilarious YouTube video of Vernon Kay interviewing Jonny and George, and Jonny telling George not to look at him as he's going to say something nice about him! The story follows on from the already published Betrayal.

A large proportion of the letters were supportive and praised their bravery, and wished them all happiness together. But there was the not unexpected green ink brigade, who quoted the bible and sounded like they were paid-up fans of Folau’s and Billy’s Instagram accounts.

For some reason, the one addressed to ‘Owen Farrell’s bitch’ really got to him. He was standing in the changing room, staring blindly into space, the envelope crumpled in his hand. 

Ben barged in, whistling loudly, but stopped when he saw George. He plucked the envelope from his hand, glanced at the front of it and ripped it into tiny pieces.

“You don’t need poisonous shit like that, kiddo,” he said, giving George a rough hug.

“I know … It just got to me for some reason …”

“Not surprised. Are you two gonna get away for a few days?”

George shrugged. The Premiership had no fixtures over Easter, but Saracens were playing Munster on Saturday in the European Champions Cup. The plan was for Owen to come over to Leicestershire after the match so they could spend the rest of the holiday weekend together. "I think we're just gonna doss around here for a couple of days."

Ben waggled his eyebrows suggestively and laughed at George's long-suffering sigh. "Come and play golf with me and Jonny on Easter Monday if you've both got enough energy left! If the press find you, Jonny can see them off with a 4-iron. Or do his ninja killer chicken act!”

George began to laugh, aware that there was an edge of hysteria to it. 

At that exact moment Jonny fell in through the changing room door and dropped his heavy kitbag on George’s foot. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Ben says you can be my protector and see off the media with a 4-iron or by doing your mad chicken act!”

Jonny looked hurt. “You know that was all a pack of lies …”

“So you say. We still reckon there’s photographic evidence out there of you locked up in a cage!”

“Bollocks! And I shall deny ever saying this, but you’re a mate in a million and anyone giving you shit will have to deal with me first. And I expect to be your best man.”

“Oi, I’m George’s oldest mate here, so that honour should be mine!” said Ben.

“You can both do it,” said George rashly, wondering how he was going to explain it away to his brothers. Maybe he could have a Sevens team of best men …

***

 

Half of the UK media seemed to know where Owen lived. George was perfectly happy with his more or less anonymous life in semi-rural Leicestershire. In the unlikely event of the press turning up on his doorstep, they’d have to get past his next-door neighbour Griselda first. She was over 70, had a tribe of grandchildren aged between about three and 30, and tended to treat him like one of her brood. Once or twice she’d absent-mindedly patted him on the head, handed him a clean hanky or asked him if he’d remembered to wash his hands before tea. But she was an assiduous house-sitter, cooked the best shepherd’s pie on the planet and was more or less oblivious to his sporting life. He was waiting for her to ask one day when he was going to get a proper job.

She was telling him all about her eldest granddaughter’s upcoming art exhibition in London when Owen arrived. He’d come straight from Coventry and looked exhausted. 

Griselda eyed him beadily and said: “If you break his heart, you’ll have me to answer to.” 

They both stared at her. "I didn't think you knew," said George weakly.

"Darling, I read the papers. And he does visit you a lot. Now, I've made you a shepherd's pie. There’s plenty there for both of you.”

***

Once they got through the front door, the shepherd’s pie went into the fridge for the next day and Owen cupped George’s face in his hands and kissed him surprisingly gently.

“You OK, our kid?”  
'  
“I’m fine. How about you, though?" George locked his arms tight around Owen’s waist.

"Looking forward to it being just us for a couple of days."

"Good win, that. But what the fuck possessed that wanker Austin Healey to give Billy the man of the match award? It should have gone to you or Liam. Talk about sending out the wrong fucking message.” 

“Fuck only knows. He’s still whining about the bloke who confronted him after the match, despite the fact he was about half Billy’s size and the stupid fucker could have taken him down with his little finger.”

“Serves him right. And sorry to gloat, but I enjoyed every fucking boo from the crowd when he touched the ball.”

“He whined about that as well.”

“I bet he did. Poor little flower. Did he say anything to you at any point?”

“Nope. He stayed well clear. And so did Mako. Did you get any shit today?”

“Only some poison pen letters that I never got to read, as Ben ripped them up. Ben and Jonny are both demanding to be my best man, so I said they can both do it!”

Owen laughed. “How are you going to explain that away to your Joe and Jacob?”

“Seeing as we won’t be needing bridesmaids and page boys, I like the thought of a Sevens team of best men!”

“Our Gabe’ll kick off if he can’t be a page boy!”

“He’ll look cute in the photos. Give him the rings to look after.”

“So we really are going to do it?”

“You bet we are! Well, unless you’ve changed your mind …” George somehow managed to keep his voice steady. Shit, he really wanted to do it.

“Of course I haven’t! I just want to be sure that you’re OK with it.” Owen sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Mate, I’m gonna marry you and make sure everyone knows what we’ve done. I’m so fucking proud of you and I’m the luckiest bloke in the world!”

Owen’s face broke into a huge smile and he wrapped his arms tight around George. "Love ya, our kid," he whispered.

***

George opened his eyes and stretched luxuriously. Fuck, that had been good last night. Owen was a passionate and generous lover with no hang-ups about who did what in bed. George smiled at the thought of casually mentioning in an interview: 'I'm not on the bottom all the time!'

"You can stop looking so bloody smug!" A large forefinger poked him in the ribs. Owen was propped on his side watching George, a smile crinkling around his eyes.

"I didn't hear any complaints from you last night," said George, rolling on top of Owen. Large hands cupped his arse and pulled them even closer together.

"Less chat, more action, mister!"

George laughed and concentrated on putting his mouth to good use.

***

The smell of fresh coffee wafting under his nose roused him from a particularly comfortable snooze. When he opened his eyes, Owen was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed next to a tray piled high with toast, fruit and yoghurt. And he'd obviously walked down the road to the shop, as he was flicking through a pile of newspapers – and their photos leaped out of both news and sports pages.

It had been the most insane week of George's life. The media officers for England, Leicester and Saracens had all sighed loudly and repeated frequently that they could have stage-managed the whole story so much more effectively if they’d been tipped off in advance. Owen pointing out very forcefully that the point of it all was the shock value and to relegate Billy’s bigoted outpourings to the inside pages of the newspapers didn’t seem to penetrate some dense PR skulls. A social media bombshell fighting fire with fire had been the only way to deliver the message.

The news that two of England’s top rugby players, one of them the national captain, were gay and about to marry each other had been more than enough to knock Brexit off the front pages. Owen’s press conference at Saracens could politely have been called robust, as he'd laid into homophobes with a passion and articulateness way beyond his often awkward media appearances. The headlines had all been surprisingly positive. And the likes of James Haskell - with whom Owen had a love-hate relationship – and Joe Marler had used their considerable social media following to support them. Marler's trolling of both Folau and Billy had won the internet for sure. 

And both Owen and George had agreed to appear on Newsnight to talk about homophobia in sport. George, who hated being interviewed with a vengeance, but looked on it as a necessary evil of the job, had surprised himself by taking the lead and using it as a chance to shoot down the fuckwits and to talk about rugby’s inclusiveness. When he'd watched it back later, he'd realised that he hadn't looked and sounded stilted as he so often did in front of the cameras. They’d dealt with the inevitable questions about Billy by saying they were disappointed at what he’d said, but were leaving it to the RFU and to Saracens to deal with.

George accepted a mug of coffee and a slice of toast done to Owen's personal semi-charred preference. "So what do you fancy doing today? We can play golf tomorrow with Ben and Jonny if you want to."

"A walk'd be good. And we could go to that pub by the canal for lunch."

They'd been there a few times and even though they'd obviously been recognised, no one had hassled them. It might be different now, though.

"Yeah, OK. You want to use the shower first?"

"Plenty of room in there for both of us! And it'd be wrong to waste water ..."

***

They were curled up on the sofa after tea - the shepherd's pie had disappeared without trace. And this was after they'd demolished generous portions of lasagne in the canal-side pub. They’d walked hand-in-hand across the fields to get there and it had felt like they were the only people in the world.

The taciturn landlord had greeted them with a nod. And as they'd finished their meal, a young woman with a couple of toddlers in tow had approached them diffidently.

"Um, sorry to interrupt you, but I just want to say that you both rock!"

Owen had beamed at her and made a fuss of the kids, who were captivated by him. And George had felt a sudden pang of guilt that Owen would never be a father. But he'd hidden it well and smiled dutifully when the young woman had asked if she could take a selfie with them. They'd made her promise to put it up on Instagram and Twitter and to tag them in.

"Can we have ice cream?" said Owen into George's shoulder, breaking into his thoughts. George’s right arm had long since gone to sleep, but it was a small price to pay for having a 14 and a half stone dead weight wrapped around him and petting him like a pedigree cat.

"Yeah, go on, then." There was an emergency tub of cookie dough in the freezer for occasional treats. And they more than deserved it after the past few days.

Owen kissed the top of George’s head and disappeared into the kitchen. George stretched cautiously, wincing as feeling started to return to his arm. 

Owen returned with two bowls of ice cream and a handful of blueberries thrown on top of each in the name of healthy eating. 

“Get this down you, our kid,” he said, hoovering his down in about a minute, then complaining that it had given him brain freeze.

George rolled his eyes and refrained from pointing out that the same thing had happened for the past 15 years every time Owen had got anywhere near ice cream.

"I know what you were thinking earlier," said Owen suddenly.

"When d'you mean?" But George knew very well.

"With them kids in the pub. I'm quite happy to be a doting uncle. You mean far more to me that any sprog."

And then George was hugging him hard, his face buried in the join of Owen's neck and shoulder. “Love you so fucking much,” he whispered.


End file.
